


Every day's most quiet need.

by QCumberShaw



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Atheist Character, Confession, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Q is a priest, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-16
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2018-01-01 18:54:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 7,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QCumberShaw/pseuds/QCumberShaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond finds comfort from an unlikely source.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He could hear the drip of blood in the quiet of the place. It had been silent at first as the stone absorbed the drops. He watched it distractedly, allowing it to build into a small pebble, the sound becoming louder as it’s depth increased. The surface tension broke with the next drop and it spread slightly, small pin pricks of splash around the circumference marred the symmetry. His mind remained focused on the sound of the dripping, eyes unseeing now as they looked at the stone and his fingers dug into his arm. He increased the pressure to slow the bleed, it seeped through the fabric, the warm liquid coated his fingers and ran down into a different ending. Back into the fabric or onto a new destination on the stone. Part of him was upset at the end of the slow, calming drip. His nail dug through the fabric, feeling the tear in his flesh, it dug deeper, catching on the edge of the bullet fragment. He worried it with his nail, the sharp, fresh pain clearing his mind as he worked it free. It slipped and he heard the dull metallic thud as it fell and rolled under his seat. He curled his palm around the muscle and pressed firmly, feeling the bleeding slow with his breathing. He sank back against the hard wooden bench, listening again to the absolute silence around him. The doors hadn’t opened since he’d entered, so he closed his eyes and relaxed, breathing in the air, unbidden memories coming back as he identified the smell of wood and dust and incense and extinguished candles. 

 

A door opened in the distance and feet walked slowly towards him. He cracked open an eye, watching the dark dressed figure move unhurriedly, passing into light and dark from the high set windows, faint traces of smoke from candles giving a solidity to the light. The figure opened a door and entered the small wooden confessional, closing it behind him. He watched his feet, visible under the edge, shoes cared for, but well worn, moving slightly across the wood of the floor, then back as their owner knelt for a few moments before resuming their position. A deep seated muscle memory found him moving, crossing the space and opening the other door before he was barely conscious of doing so. He sat down heavily on the narrow wooden seat, the small amount of light showed the plain grille set in front of him and the thin red cloth provided for privacy if he wished. He knew that some never used it, wanting the repentant to face their confessor.

 

The silence lengthened. He could see the other man still at first, his legs visible through a small gap where the cloth fell clumsily, then a pale hand brushed his knee. A small cough announced that he was waiting. Bond tipped his head back against the wood, senses clearing and started to rise.

 

“It’s okay, take your time. I know that it can be difficult.” The man hesitated, he could see his hand move slightly, as if to hold him back. “I feel that your coming in here wasn’t intentional.” There was a long pause as he sat back, the edge of the seat pressing into his spine. As with all of the elements of the place, physical comfort was not provided. “If you want to talk, I’m here, but if you just need a quiet place to be with your thoughts, that too is fine.” There was a rustle of fabric as the priest sat back, waiting.

 

He breathed deeply through his nose, the heavier, closer air of the confined space pressed briefly upon him, before he allowed his body to relax. The wax of the wood was mellow, aged, calming, for him anyhow, not necessarily for the countless who had been here before, voluntarily pouring out their deepest secrets, while no doubt keeping others still contained, the duplicity curling at the edge of their consciousness, the final get out clause if they were so blessed, that they could always repent at the last minute and accept salvation. He eased the grip on his arm, the fabric sticky, cooling now, the metallic tang of the blood was filling the space. He flexed the muscle, knowing his mistake as the warm bubble touched his palm. He bunched the torn edges of the fabric together and pressed the improvised tamponade into the open flesh, allowing the sting of pain to centre him.

 

“Bad day at work.” He slotted the memory away, couching it in dispassionate words suitable for retelling. “Then again, a good day for me usually means a bad one for someone else.” The man is silent, allowing the words to come. “Sorry to take up your time, as you surmised, my being here is accidental.” He can hear a small chuckle.

 

“God works in mysterious ways.”

 

“That’s as bad as one of my lines.” He hears the laugh again and a spark of something ignites in him. He shakes it off and rises. “Thank you for your time.” He opens the door with his left hand, wincing slightly. “Sorry about the mess.” The noise of the street is deafening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from How do I love thee? - Elizabeth Barrett Browning.


	2. Chapter 2

He doesn’t mean to go back, but a week later he is nearby. He checks the time and looks at the noticeboard. The divinity is obviously hard at work. Positively run off his feet. He grins and allows the thought to slide through his head as he notes the familiar feet under the door. He sits a moment, vaguely tuning his ear to the soft, inaudible voices he can hear. The light is duller today, a grey gloom barely penetrating the shadows. A brief flare of a match to his distant left causes a slight tension in his body. He watches the warm flare of the candle bathe the statue before deft fingers place it in a holder. The woman sinks down and bows her head and Bond finds himself staring at the floor. He seeks out the patch of blood, it’s barely visible, he’s done a good job. The door opens to his right and a woman passes in front of him, kneeling. The clack of rosary beads against the wood sound loud as they slip through her fingers. He hears the softly muttered words and his mind unconsciously remembers them, filling in the blanks. This stops him short and he stands to leave, pausing a moment at the open door. An apology would be enough and he’s already given one. 

 

The seat is as hard as he remembers and this time the space is filled with the woman’s scent, not unpleasant, but a part of him wants to ensure that in future, he will be here first.

 

He allows the silence to build again. He’s used to waiting, of silence, expectation, it doesn’t bother him and for once, he finds that he is in the presence, well, partially, of someone that isn’t discomforted by it. The only other time this happens, is in psych, but the expectation is that he will talk. Eventually. But this is different, he knows that already. He mulls it over. There is a third time that is definitely full of the expectation that he will talk, but as with psych, he doesn’t, however hard they try. Perhaps he will tell him this one day. He breaks first.

 

“Sorry again. For the mess, I mean.”

 

“We get worse, really.”

 

“Oh?” He’s perplexed for a moment.

 

“Many of our parishioners are troubled, some fall into the path of abuse and violence. But we try to be a sanctuary for all. We see all that is awful in the world as well as the good.” The pause stretches and he wants him to continue talking. His voice is soothing, warm and hypnotic. He can imagine the power of his sermons, they’d be quiet, but compelling. “Of course, most of the time, we see all that is mundane, ordinary, normal.” The edge of a laugh colours his voice. “That is good. Very good actually, not being wanted is often a positive in my line of work.” Bond laughs, brushing a finger across his mouth as he considers the parallel.

 

“I often think the same.” He hears the other man shift position.

 

“I hope it was nothing too serious and you’ve recovered?”

 

“Yes, I am, thank you, occupational hazard. You should have see the other guy.” He senses the slight freeze as the words slide out. It’s normal banter for him, but it suddenly feels so wrong. The images fast forward, it's not the worst thing he’s ever done and he’s here, berating himself because he is sitting there.

 

“That was a figure of speech.” He mumbles at the lie, compounding his confusion.

 

“I’m not here to judge you. Nothing you say will shock me, even with my relatively few years as a priest, I think I’ve heard it all.” He opens his mouth to refute that, then hesitates, hands tightening as he wonders again at his being here. The blank anonymity of the confessional, is that what it is? The curtain is fully covering the grille this time and the light is dimmer, he can’t make out the other man’s outline at all. He is completely trapped if the circumstances dictate that he must be and yet he feels completely safe. The silence lengthens with the shadows.

 

“Would you like me to hear your confession?” The words are soft and un-pressured. His frowns at them, because that is not what this is, he doesn’t know what it is, but religion isn’t coming into it.

 

“No, I mean…” He searches for the words, not wanting to cut him off as he knows he wants to come back. “I’m not religious, well, I was raised as such, but…” He trails off.

 

“I understand. I’m here for anyone, however you want to approach this. As I said before, take your time.” 

 

He leaves eventually and finds that over an hour has elapsed, mainly in silence, but with some scant words too. He had occasionally skirted around the banalities of his day to day life, small mentions of things that mattered in a small way. The silences left by the man chipped minutely away at his reticence.


	3. Chapter 3

He has evaded his psych evaluation since his last mission as he has found a better refuge. Another week has passed and the last few days have set up a pattern. The pools of silence are still deep, but he has thrown small pebbles into them on a couple of occasions and the effect was soothing. The metaphor hangs around his mind as he leans and rests his forehead against the cool stone. There is another priest in the confessional behind him and he can hear his louder drone as he gives absolution. His priest was normally alone, the numbers requiring his services barely warranting the time he gave. But now, Bond was taking up most of it and yet he gives no sign that he is irked by that. Perhaps he looked forward to it? Not that he had yet got to any point where Bond had really talked. For all that the man said, the reality of his life was something that would require a careful unveiling. He had been assured that despite what he feared that others of his ilk may do, he would never betray his secrets, no matter how awful. That comment had come as he had risen to leave yesterday, he’d hesitated, then grunted that he’d heard. Obviously his circuitous, non monologues hinted at a desire to reveal more. He scratched a thumbnail along the cool smooth stone. Today, the light changed according to the cloud cover and at present a shaft of dusty light hit the red curtain, it shone, the weave visible, the edge bunched slightly showing the man’s legs, crossed comfortably, in for the long haul.

 

“So, why do you do it?” There was silence as he waited for Bond to be more specific. “Wait, patiently, I mean.”

 

“Saving a sinner can be a long term undertaking.” Bond chuckled. “That’s my official line. I feel obligated to point that out.” He saw him sit straighter. “I feel you want to talk and I’m a patient man.” His pale fingers rested on his knees, then laced together. “I like listening to you, I can almost feel your brain unpicking itself, wondering how much to reveal.”

 

“I’d say you missed your calling, but you haven’t, have you?” He heard his deep laugh. “You’d be good in the secular world you know, I mean you’re a bit wasted here, not that many people really come to see you.”

 

“I’d not be allowed the luxury of time. And thank you for the compliment.” Bond smiled.

 

“I’m James.” He allowed him to uncover another layer.

 

“Welcome, James. I’m Father Quinn. The youth group call me Q, they say it’s cooler than Father. You can too, if that is of any help to you.”

 

“Q.” He nodded. “Yes, I prefer that.” It was as anonymous as the voice behind the curtain, but at least he had something non religious to call him. He shifted his pose, leaving the support of the wall as they descended into silence again. He could hear an indiscreet cough from outside.

 

“Sometimes I have to go to abroad for long undefined periods. I’ll let you know, if you like.” He sat up straight again. “In fact, I’m off next week.”

 

“Yes, that would be nice, then I needn’t worry unnecessarily.”

 

“Worry?”

 

“I worry over all of my parishioners, although from what you’d hinted, perhaps I should worry more about you?”

 

“I always come back. Though sometimes it can take a while.”


	4. Chapter 4

Three months to be precise and to find that he had been declared dead. He wasn’t too surprised, but the lack of accommodation was somewhat annoying. He sat in his usual spot for a while, waiting for the sound of approaching feet. The space was cold, scant warmth coming from the mid autumn air. He blew out his breath experimentally. Not quite cold enough for it to be visible. The sun broke through the clouds as he heard the footsteps, the light painting the space and the shadows obscured by dust motes and eddies of smoke, once again preventing him from seeing the man. He considered moving and stepping into the shadows to see his face, but that would break the fragile trust he was building. Besides, the anonymity helped, seeing him would add preconceptions, however well intentioned and unconscious. He didn’t know if he glanced over at him, but suspected not. A moment passed before he crossed the space, his muscles still protesting as they bore his weight. He rubbed a finger over his shoulder, the hard nub of bullet fragments within tantalizing reach. He’d remove them later.

 

“Welcome back, James.” He grinned, so he had looked. “I recognise your almost silent footsteps and the fact that you never kneel.” He shook his head in gentle admiration.

 

“Ah, so you didn’t just seeing me outside?”

 

“No, I haven’t seen you at all. I tend not to acknowledge people waiting unless they wish it. Many find it uncomfortable, me knowing who is confessing a particular sin. It encourages reticence, despite my reassurances.”

 

“I did wonder.” They sat for a while, as was their wont. Bond mulling over his being here as usual, but relaxing into the silence.

 

“I was dead.” He could almost feel the man’s eyebrows raise. “Like your employer’s son, I’m very good at resurrection.” He could hear his stifled laugh.

 

 

“I’m glad to hear that.” The curtain was not quite pulled across and he could see the his slim arm and shoulder covered in black wool. He was probably about Bond’s height. His head tilted slightly and he saw dark brown hair before it disappeared. “Would you like to tell me your version? I’m fairly familiar with ours.” It was Bond’s turn to smile.

 

 

“Why not?” He crossed his legs and settled back, eyes on the edge of the man’s body to see his reaction. “I got shot off the top of a moving train.” He remained still.

 

 

“Mmm, dramatic, though I think out version is a bit more so.” Bond’s lips quirked.

 

 

“Then I fell down a ravine into a river before hauling my sorry arse out, then recovering, before drinking and fucking for the following two months.”

 

 

“Well, that’s a departure from ours.” He could hear a soft hum to show that he was considering. “Well, the miracle bit’s there. Obviously you had a longer timescale before announcing your resurrection and I don’t think Christ had much time for the other activities, though who knows?” Bond barked out a laugh.

 

“I told you, not much shocks me.” He saw him lean forward slightly. “I presume you’re not lying to add to your sins.”

 

“No, Father.” 

 

“Would you like absolution?” He was rendered speechless for the first time since he’d been coming here.

 

“What, I mean, for what?”

 

 

“The fornication, well you could throw in the alcohol abuse, I suppose, the getting shot per se, isn’t really an offence, though it could depend on what you were doing to get to that point.” He paused. “I suppose the divine intervention in saving you, puts you in a good light.” He could almost see the smile that he was sure was spreading over the priest’s face.

 

 

“Don’t I have to be sorry for that to work? Absolution, I mean?”

 

 

“I’ll pray for you then.”

 

 

“Besides, that’s the least of them.”

 

“I’ll pray extra hard.” His voice was serious and made him pause, the emptiness of the previous months washed over him and then self pity. He sank down onto his knees and bowed his head.

 

“Thank you.” He was aware of words being said and tears pricked at his eyes. Someone cared.


	5. Chapter 5

In the following weeks, they were back to their previous circumspect ways, but now he told him about being dead and how part of him had wanted to stay that way. Gone, finished with the life he led. Q, for he was now Q in his mind, still did know how far beyond redemption he was, and Bond knew he wouldn’t tell, as he was enjoying having someone care, however dispassionately. He told him that a terrible event at work had brought him back and the fallout meant he would be leaving again soon. He hadn’t knelt again, that momentary lapse was never mentioned.

 

“Singapore.” He scratched at the itch from the healing scar on his shoulder.

 

“Quite the jet setter.” Q said dryly. “Will there be guns?”

 

“Probably.” The silence clung to Q.

 

“You’ll be in my prayers.” Bond swallowed hard and left.

 

_

 

He slammed his body into the narrow seat, this time he didn't have that much time to talk, but he needed to. He bent his head forward onto his hands, running his fingers through his hair, breath hissing from him. 

 

"Sorry, I'm a bit tense." There was a soft laugh from the other side of the grille.

 

"Really? I'd never have guessed. The storming in here and slamming the door gave me no clue."

 

 

Bond straightened and breathed a deep, slow breath.

 

"Not a good trip, then?"

 

"No." The utter shit of it reverberated through his mind, the thin, acrid taste of hatred and visceral nausea as he remembered the psychopath's callous disregard for a woman he had purported to love, turned his stomach. The distinction crashed down in his head. He killed, but there was no pleasure, a release, sometimes, but no perverse, sadistic pleasure. "People died."

 

"At your hand?" He sat up sharply, the priest was perceptive. Or just taking a wild guess, given what had happened previously. He considered everything he'd said to him so far, what sort of picture had built up in his mind. He knew he had built one, he'd come here enough and he knew him, even recognised him from his footfall and demeanor, saw him as a distinct entity, as he no doubt did with his regular parishioners. It should have given him pause, make him wary, not somewhat pleased. He doubted that Q got as much from their encounters as he was probably the most reticent of his flock, certainly the most unrewarding in terms of salvation.

 

"Oh, yea of little faith." He found himself reverting to his usual sarcastic humour. Flirting obviously wasn't going to come into it. 

 

“Do you mind my coming here? I mean, I’m hardly salvageable?” HIs deep laugh was soothing.

 

“Think of it as extra brownie points, the more hardened the sinner, the better.” Bond sighed heavily.

 

“So, I’m just a notch on your metaphorical bedpost?”

 

“I don’t do notches, James.” He heard a patient sigh. “I’m in it for the long haul and no, I care about you as a person, not just your soul.” The silence crept around them again. “I’m glad you’re back safe too, I hadn’t realised how much I worried about you until you returned.” He coughed. “Well, that’s enough of that. Will you be confessing all? Or are we relying on a deathbed confession?” 

 

“That may come sooner than expected. Shall I put you on speed dial?” His laugh was deep and genuine.

 

“Of course, I’m always on call.” Bond stood and paused.

 

“I won’t take it though. Like I said, I always come back.”


	6. Chapter 6

The flare of a match lit the gloom and the faint splutter of the candle wax nearly extinguished it before the flame bloomed softly. He heard the puff of Q’s breath as he blew out the match, the faint tang of the extinguished match filled the space and dissipated as the melting wax took over. The small space behind the grille was bathed in it’s soft glow, the wool of his jumper absorbing the light, muted against the faint glow of the wood. The curtain was fully drawn and a pale hand moved to close it, then paused as Bond raised his hand.

 

“James?”

 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

 

“No, it’s fine, bit early aren’t you? Shall I close it?”

 

“No.” He didn’t want a barrier, not now, not after what had happened. The warm glow against the darkening gloom was compelling, a personification of the need to talk, really talk to him. The grille’s height was set that he couldn’t see his face unless he knelt, so he studied his torso and the pale, elegant fingers that settled back onto his lap.

 

“You’ve been injured again?” He sat up straighter, startled.

 

“How did…?”

 

“I can smell the antiseptic and bandages, not your usual well groomed scent. There’s also something else, along with the gun oil and powder.” His muscles tensed at his words.

 

“What the fuck?”

 

“Sorry. I’ve a strong sense of smell and I recognise people from that as well as their sounds, you can’t help it when you can’t see the other person, I just pick up these things. The gun scents, took a while to figure out, the bandages are a bit more common. Sorry.”

 

“Lake water, I’ve not been able to shower properly, Medical wouldn’t let me.”

 

“I don’t suppose you should be here either?” He cracked a faint smile and started to laugh, it shook through him and then the tears started, flowing hot, streaking down his face as his body convulsed. He sank down onto the narrow kneeling pad, head buried in his arms as they rested on the narrow shelf.

 

“She’s dead. She was my boss, she was a bitch at times. But I loved her.” His voice hiccuped between the sobs. “She was like a mother and... she fucking cared.” The pain raged through him and he dug his nails into his arms, focusing on the sting as he breathed deeply, bringing himself back. He pressed his eyes into the wool of his sleeve until they stopped shedding the hot, salty liquid and he released his limbs, thumbs pressing and wiping his eyes.

 

“I’m sorry.” The voice was barely a whisper, close to him. He sank back onto his heels and raised his head. He saw the hand pressed against the grille, pale against the bronze metal, placed as though to soothe with a gentle touch. The candle light flickered over his heavy rimmed glasses and the dark eyes looked full of compassion.

 

“She died in my arms.” His brow creased and he watched his lips, parted to comfort further. “Then I killed the man responsible.” 

 

His voice was cold and matter of fact. He watched the flinch at his words, the subtle shift as he kept his composure, he could see him think and conclude that self defence was acceptable. But Bond knew his life was always going to be full of pain, anyone who cared got hurt or killed, so he had to stop that compassion now, show his true self, continue speaking so that Q’s words would be harsh, condemning, Bond would feel what he deserved, halt this… he sought for the word ...peace. “He wasn’t the first person I’ve killed and he won’t be the last.” He watched the involuntary swallow, the bare flicker of fear in his eyes and his hand slid down the grille, but he remained kneeling, watching Bond.


	7. Chapter 7

Regret flooded him instantly. The man in front of him had offered nothing but kindness, demanded nothing and here he was slamming his fists into his mind. He settled back on his heels, the edge of the kneeler digging into his shins. Nothing like the pains he has endured in the past, almost insignificant. He shuffles slightly to increase it, distract himself from thinking. He can feel the tight dryness of the skin around his eyes, the dried tracks where his tears had ran down his face, jaw. His hands are moist and he rubs them together. He has an almost irrational desire to taste the skin, but contents himself with running his tongue over his lips, a sharp flake of dry skin rasping over the soft, wet muscle. The familiar salt tang is gone almost as soon as he tastes it. He closes his eyes, dry and stinging now as a result of his outburst. His mind is filled with the image of Q and his instinctive fear response. He can’t bear to have that as the final memory of coming here. He opens them again, blinking despite the soft lighting and as they focus.

 

He hasn’t moved. The candle light is warm, flickering as a slight gust of air from outside moves it. His face is close to the grille, his hand resting back on it. The pale flesh presses through it in parts, at the finger tips and the base of his palm. He resists the urge to touch the smooth flesh, his eyes returning to Q’s gaze. His skin is pale, smooth, but with creases across his brow, belying the startlingly youthful appearance he first saw. The glasses don’t quite hide his eyes. Green, with pupils dilated against the low light, dark lashed and concerned or puzzled, hard to know really. How does one react to the confession of what could be a serial killer in front of them. He hasn’t run. He doubts that it is through stupidity, though he feels that his belief in the goodness of human nature is sadly misplaced. He looks at his lips, startlingly red, full, slightly bitten and posed to speak, but as with Bond, uncertain. He has the dark shadow of stubble evident as the evening draws in, looking at the thick waves of his hair, brushed casually back, he wonders if he minds it, or does he curse his need to shave so frequently. He unexpected reverie is disturbed by the movement of his fingers down and off the grille and his sitting back on his haunches, mimicking Bond, his head tilting as he contemplates him. He seems as fragile as a bird and as vulnerable and then he smiles and Bond feels a burn of hope.

 

He runs a hand over his face, smoothing away the salt, then through his hair. He can smelt the dank scent of the lake. He needs to breathe and inhales deeply and he sits up again, face close to the grille, the faint scent of wax filling his nose. He doesn’t want to smell the scent of the dead anymore. Q shifts and there is a faint odour of soap. He’s too far away to smell his skin. Bond smiles to himself at his likely reaction to being asked if he could smell him. He catches his smile and stops.

 

“Sorry.” He sees the question in his eyes as he looks at him again and shakes his head fractionally, composing his features. They contemplate each other again and then Bond tells him.

 

“It’s my job.”

 

“Not a hobby, then?” The silence of the church is punctuated by their laughter.


	8. Chapter 8

“You’re my first.” Bond quirked a brow, just catching Q’s eye as he settled himself back in his seat, watching as Q takes off his glasses, pausing to find a smear before wiping them with the edge of his jumper. His attention focused on the small task. “That I’m aware of, there could be lots of course, but they haven’t felt the need to seek me out.” Satisfied, he put his glasses back on, regarding Bond steadily.

 

“No, I can’t imagine they’d come willingly.” He shifted slightly. “Not nowadays.” There’s a small nod.

 

“We would give absolution if they wanted it.” A smile flitted over his lips. “Obviously we’d encourage them to understand that a full confession to more secular powers...” he licked his lips “...would come as part of their true repentance. It would be the start, really.” His smile broadened. “After all, contrition in this life does earn some brownie points. The whole unburdening yourself, giving closure to others and reflecting on your sins are part of the process.” He shifted slightly, eyes not leaving Bond’s. “Of course, only God can know the depth of one’s sincerity, whether it comes through fear or true remorse. I cannot judge, ever.” He smiled thinly this time. “But I’ve a feeling your line of work is a little beyond my usual sphere.” Bond could feel his mind unpicking him, his eyes reading small truths. “I like to feel that his mercy is limitless.” A pause. “Then again, you’re not seeking spiritual solace...”

 

“No.” He interrupts and watches Q sit back and cross his legs, adopting a thoughtful pose.

 

“You’re not a soldier, here too often and your destinations aren’t major conflict zones. Despite your somewhat brutilised appearance, I don’t think you’re part of the criminal classes either.” He paused, considering him further. “Well, maybe on occasion.” He felt the grin widen on his face as Q continued. “So, I’m going for the supposed glamorous option, of assassin.”

 

“Yes.” Ten points for that. “Licensed to kill by Her Majesty’s Government.”

 

“They really do that?” He can almost see Q’s brain working through the various scenarios that’s conjured up and keeps smiling as he retorts. “I do it to protect Queen and country, I follow orders, but use my initiative when needed. Which is often.” 

 

“I think we make allowances for state sanctioned killings, I don’t think the link between the church and state would be able to function otherwise.” His eyes are narrowed, thinking as Bond crosses his legs.

 

“You know, it’s as well that you’re sworn to uphold the secrets of the confessional or I’d have to kill you.” The flicker of mock alarm allows his smile to widen.

 

“I’m too useful to you at present.” He folded his arms, leaning against his favourite spot on the wall, mind settling, calm again, that telling Q was literally unknotting tension within him.

 

“Perceptive little fucker. You know that’ll this’ll mean you’ll be getting all my angst now?” Q’s smirk is unexpected and welcoming.

 

“I look forward to it. It’s been rather quiet around here for a while.”

 

The silence settled again, comfortable, warm, he can fill in the blanks gradually. He looks at the edge of the curtain, the red edge vivid in the candle light, then vague biblical metaphors come unbidden into his mind. The veil was rent... He shook his head and wondered what the fuck he was doing even remembering this.

 

“Problem?”

 

“No, half arsed biblical references coming to mind and rather over the top for the situation.”

 

“Hmm.” Q leant forward, smiling, face a picture of guilelessness.

 

“As I said before, God moves in mysterious ways.”

 

“Piss off.” Q grinned and glanced at his watch.

 

“I had better. Goodnight, James.” Bond made to rise, the fabric releasing the murk of the lake. “I’d offer you a cup of tea, but I think a shower and a change of clothes would be in order. Then bed.”

 

“Now, I like the sound of that.” He was sure there was a faint flush over his cheeks as Bond smirked and left.


	9. Chapter 9

He gazed, unfocused at a nearby candle as he waited for him. The chill from the funeral not quite gone, he’d wanted his presence, for something to talk about now, but knew it would have been inappropriate. He was pulled out of his musing by the sound of his footsteps, pausing. Bond looked up, seeing Q take in his attire before entering the confessional. He waited a moment, watching the flare of the match and the warm glow suffuse the box.

 

“Was it bearable?” He nodded. They’d hesitated, Q paused unsure whether to close the curtain, but Bond shook his head, the anonymity he’d craved was unnecessary now. Q was unafraid of him and his psyche.

 

“Yes, quiet, dignified, terribly British, but there was actually a lot of genuine warmth expressed for her.” He looked at the edge of his shoe, the polish glowing softly. 

 

“It’s over now. There’s memories of course, but when you deal with death all the time, you have to let go.” Q regarded him steadily as he looked back up. “Couldn’t do my job otherwise.” He nodded.

 

“Me too, to a lesser extent, of course.” His lips quirked slightly. “Though of course, I do have spiritual comfort. Does it bother you that you don’t? That this is it?” His head tilted, question poised on his lips. “Or do you still have a tendril of belief?”

 

“No.” The answer is harsh and rapid. The thin seam of doubt cracks open briefly, before he buries it again. Q sees it and sits back.

 

“Sorry.” The silence is fraught and Bond feels a flare of anger that he quenches with the skill of decades.

 

“It’s hard to completely block out the years of indoctrination from such a young age, it slips back and yes, there’s comfort at times and I use the language and imagery, but no, I don’t believe.” He smiles, genuinely. “Tell me why you believe.” Q shifts slightly.

 

“I will, at some point, but not today.”

 

Several weeks pass, and they tiptoe around theological questions and Bond wonders yet again what he is doing. He evades some of the questions, as does Q, by talking about their lives. He tells him of his missions, using vague terms for people and places to protect him, but is explicit about his emotional response. He finds that he’s enjoying it, if that is an appropriate term and it’s getting easier to speak, almost becoming dispassionate about it, as though he were observing himself, until each time Q throws in a theological conundrum.

 

“You know I’m going to burn in hell and we’ll never see each other again.” Q laughs.

 

“What makes you think I won’t be there too?”

 

“Really?”

 

“The stakes for getting into heaven are pretty high, I’ll get purgatory at the very least. I do have my failings.” Bond grunted in response. “I like to think that He is merciful, he may even look kindly on you.”

 

“I never got why God would create everyone, let them live for a relatively tiny amount of time, then spend eternity punishing them for doing what they are only capable of doing, because he gave them the ability to do so. I mean, talk about vindictive.”

 

“Mmm. The eternal question.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck and stretches, setting down for a deeper conversation. “We base our teachings on our interpretation of documents written by men, so we cannot truly know.” Bond’s phone buzzes, strident in the hollow space. He glances at the number and apologies as he answers, listening as he’s called in for an assignment.

 

“I have to go, I expect I’ll be away for a while.” He looks at Q’s face, pale in the candle light and sees the flicker of disappointment.


	10. Chapter 10

“Forty days.”

 

“Were you tempted?”

 

“Frequently.” Q’s shy glance away, hiding his smirk, makes him appear even younger in the dull grey light. Spring is approaching and enough daylight persists for them to see each other, their time being measured as it fades. He’s rolled his sleeves up beneath his black jumper and his collar is open at the top.

 

“Rather casual tonight?” He glances down, though he cannot have forgotten what he is wearing.

 

“Yes, I have a youth group later, I’m teaching computing.” He catches Bond’s look of surprise and deliberately ignores his implied question. “There’s a good lot of interest, some of them are excellent, quite a few are learning to hack in fact...”

 

“You teach computing?” Q’s grin is broad, delighted at wrong footing him. He wonders how they’ve got to the point where they read each other like a book, given that lately, he’s away on more mission than he’s here. This revelation causes him to stare, that there is so much still unknown. Not that it should matter to him, as Q is here for Bond. But he knows that isn’t quite the case. 

 

“Yes, I studied engineering and computing at Uni. I was exceptionally good and it was my whole life.” He brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead, absently smoothing and running his hand through his hair, fidgeting more than Bond has seen him do. His hand persists in the thick tangle, forgotten as he remembers, a light in his eyes that he’s barely seen. “ I was the best hacker and programmer around, but a series of random and frankly boring events lead me to rediscovering my faith and then, after denying my vocation for several years, I studied for the priesthood.” He watches the faint air of disbelief he shows to him, as if it could be so prosaic, the choice made on a flimsy turn of events, but he knows that the reasons must be deeper, surely as deep at least, as Bond’s own convictions.

 

“I suppose the best way I could describe it, is that it’s like falling in love, without the disappointments.” His smile is sweet, unapologetic and he looks fragile, vulnerable for a moment, waiting for the questions, the anger sometimes that people felt on his behalf, that he was wasting his life. Bond leans forward.

 

“I get the unshakable conviction bit, really. I was going to ask if you missed not being like other people, because they tend to think of priests as different, but given my line of work...”

 

“Exactly, my life is normal, for me. But, yes I miss some parts, I love computing and I do keep my hand in, the students in the classes are brilliant and they love the challenge.”

 

“So how good are you?” There’s a slight tension, an unconscious protective wrapper is wound around him, then loosened as he regards him.

 

“Since you’ve been so open with me, I think I can reciprocate.” Bond shifts in anticipation, watching the animated play of excitement on his face and he bites and licks his lower lip, the red deepening, the pale pink tip of his tongue pausing a moment. He’s staring, held in thrall, barely registering as he speaks again. “Well, MI6 was a bit of a struggle.” Bond blinks, refocusing on his words in surprise.

 

“MI6?”

 

“Mmm.” His expression is unreadable. “I’ve always liked a challenge.” Bond sits back, a layer has been unpicked and he’s thrown. Q in the outside world has barely touched his consciousness. The insularity of their meetings has focused him to a tiny point. There’s now been a seismic shift. 

 

“I just haven’t pictured you outside of here.” He shakes his head. “Fuck. So you get the rest of the world, then?”

 

“Rather well. I’ve skirted around conspiracy theories, the darker elements of hacking, I understand what you do, but I’m here. This is who I am.”

 

“Brilliant at everything you do.” The light is fading and Q flicks a lighter, this is the twenty first century, he’d quipped in response to Bond’s question, and lights the candle. The yellow warmth throws his face into relief. His eyes hidden by the reflection in his glasses. His smile is undisguised.

 

“I know.”


	11. Chapter 11

Q spins him a web of words over the next few days as they discuss computing, technology and dip into various other scientific branches, surprising Bond at how much he’s kept himself up to date , that he needs to, not just for himself, but to keep himself one step ahead of the brighter students. Bond follows much of what he says, and on catching the slight, happy delight in his face, reminding him that contrary to what it seems, it’s not all brute force in his job and he does know his arse from a USB port.

 

Bond watches, the passion flows through him, so different from how he has been. Was that because he knew that he wasn’t interested in hearing about God? He’s seeing in a different light, the veneer of otherness is slipping.

 

“Now talk to me about your faith.” He says after a brief foray into the origins of the universe, which quite frankly, gave Bond a headache if he thought too much about what was before the Big Bang and how there could be nothing. Q looks startled at the change of subject, then sits back, still, contemplating him.

 

“You want to see if I’m as passionate about that?” A smile curves over Bond’s lips. “It’s different, a quiet place inside.” Then he talks, allowing the words to unfold, quietly, his voice musical, the timbre changing with the words, his body relaxed. He can feel the quiet power in his words as he describes his emotional state, admitting that he had been tested at times, but had always been pulled back. He only half listens, the content less important than the telling. His voice is hypnotic and despite himself, at times Bond feels an emotional tug, a slight need to have an external force present in his life, but he brings himself back. He finds that MI6 is a high enough power to answer too.

 

“I bet you’re compelling in the pulpit.”

 

“They don’t tend to nod off.” His brows arch, it's almost imperceptible.

 

“Charisma helps a lot, to spread faith, so do good stories, well told.” His mouth twists into a wry smile.

 

“Works for you too. We do seem to have so many parallels in our respective professions." They laugh quietly. "But, thank you for your belief in my power to command an audience.” His hand is in his hair again, raking it back. “In fact, why don’t you come along one Sunday? We often have a Bring-A-Sinner-to-Work Day.” He winks and Bond can find no reason to refuse.


	12. Chapter 12

The silence was vaguely respectful, punctuated as it was by an occasional cough, rustle of clothing or stage-whispered hush to a fidgeting child. The lamentable wail of the organ announcing the first hymn broke through his reverie and the rest of the surprisingly large congregation rose. Bond hesitated, then joined them, hands in pocket, deciding he’d sit for the rest of the service, as he was as far back and tucked away as he could be, while still able to see the pulpit. 

 

He had no need to blend in for once and his impulsive standing was already adding to his discomfort. They sat again and half remembered words and order of service came back to him as he watched Q. 

 

He wore purple, a proper, regal, deep hue. Bond glanced at the order of service; the last day of Lent, pre Ash Wednesday, if he recalled correctly, or had that already happened? Not that it mattered to him. His eyes focused on the priest, the litany as a rite, unconsciously spoken, or, he bit his lip, possibly meant each time he spoke the words. He watched more closely, observing his mannerisms, but Q’s eyes were half closed, emotions internalised.

 

The sermon caused a pause in his observations. A small eddy of words, quiet, but resonant, carrying to the dim unlit corners of the church, flowing, seeking out the tiniest cracks in his mind, pushing, insistent and finally flowing into the breach. He didn’t hear the content, but he knew he was in the presence of an orator, as he had foreseen. He let them wash over him as he observed their origin, so small and unassuming, but with the might of an angelic hoard.

 

The congregation dissipated and he slipped out once the church was silent again. The few verses of the last hymn had done his vocal chords no disservice. He coughed and adjusted his shirt cuffs. The bright light of the day caused a sight hesitation, a blink and surprise to see that they hadn’t all left, they were milling around, talking and shaking hands with Q. His Q. Or Rather Father Quinn. He hesitated, then moved forward as Q’s eyes found his, a smile breaking over his face, a hand clasping his, the other laid on top.

 

“James, so good of you to come.” The soft, firm grip is unexpected and holds him still. It’s neutral, but giving, encompassing, as it is with all his parishioners, but it fires through him. Contact after so long. The anonymity has been already ripped asunder, now, the flesh has been made real. The religious metaphor tears through him again as he smiles coolly, composure intact, and his mind realigns himself to his corporeal presence.

 

“My pleasure.” Their hands remain clasped. “You were better than I anticipated. Quite astonishing, really.” Q looks down. He knows that he holds no truck with false modesty, and while he sees pride as sinful, Bond knows that he knows what he is good at. His returning gaze and thanks are therefore sincere, but Bond is caught by his astonishment.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“You had no idea how good you are?” His gaze flickers. “I’ve seen heads of state less eloquent.” The green eyes widen in astonishment and he feels the sweat increase on his palm as he becomes aware that they are still attached. They are close, of similar height, as he’d guessed. The incense lingers over his skin and the pale spring light barely gives warmth to his features. His frame had grown as he’d preached, and now, as people mingled around, chatting absently, he’d let it bleed into them, but still he dominates the scene and Bond can’t let go and there is no pressure to do so. A voice calls the priest and he turns, answering.

 

“ I have to go.” He holds Bond’s gaze a moment and then leaves.


End file.
